Here We Are
by Gollum's Fish
Summary: Same as the original, really save there are minor changes to the opening chapter, and it has been spilt into chapters. It's the Battle of Helm's Deep, and Legolas recieves to his horror a poisoned wound which yields the potential to kill hi
1. Default Chapter

Chapter One - Rain  
  
The rain pelted down harder than before in the night, sweeping over the heaving masses of bodies with its freezing hand, drenching all, numbing limbs that had to work in order to survive. It was such a fray as he had never seen or indeed taken part in before, and it chilled him. He could sense the deaths of those that fell, could hear the pained screams louder than any Man was capable, even as the thunder tried to split the sky in two. It all came to him - the smell of blood and fear, the awareness of lives being extinguished like candles and just as easily.  
  
Legolas was terrified. There were no two ways about it. Impossible odds faced the side he was on and it was fear and the smallest dose of hope that kept him fighting with his efficiency. The fear of what exactly he was not entirely sure; it could be the fear of pain, of death, of seeing the collapse of all he deemed good in the world. Perhaps it was the prospect of never seeing the sun rise again, or never again seeing the stars, or of not being able to see his father again... His father was someone that he had frequently thought of during his travels with the Ringbearer. It was his father who had taught him to fight as he did, pushing him through lessons in weaponry 'til he was as efficient and accurate as an eagle and as swift as a wolf. He had resented the tutoring back then, but now he thanked the gods for his father pushing so relentlessly.  
  
His quiver had been emptied long ago, so it was down to his ability with his knives to keep him alive.  
  
Another Orc clashed its scimitar with his long knives. The weapon was effectively blocked by one knife, and the other sliced through its neck, sending a stream of black down its breastplate. This was how the night had been going so far – block, slash, kill. Block, slash, kill. He was so used to it that all of the death he brought about did not bother him quite as much as it used to – but it did not mean that he was impervious to it, that it failed to affect him anymore. It did.  
  
He never got the chance to recover his breath as two more came at him, their lust for the spill of blood fuelled by the fall of their companion. They were bigger than the previous one had been - Urõk-hai. They even surpassed the Elf's height such was their stature. He did not allow that to faze him in the slightest, however, and threw himself into the battle with all the vigour that his tiring body and mind could muster.  
  
One of the disadvantages that Orcs had was that they were not very agile. One of the advantages that Elves had was that they were. Legolas was able to whip round the back of one of them and punch one of the knives in and out of its back with lightening speed. He hated killing like this - he thought it unfair to kill when his opponent could not see him - but here, right now, he had no option and showed no mercy, just as Aragorn had said.  
  
The Orc collapsed and he was left with the larger of the two. It roared its rage into the night - one of the disadvantages of heightened senses was that the Elf could smell the putrid breath from where he stood. Had he known what it was like to feel so, he would have described it as nauseating.  
  
Lightening snaked across the sky above their heads, and Legolas thought that he saw the tinge of something blue-green beneath the blood of Elves and Men alike upon his enemy's blade. He classed that as his mind tricking him in the flash of light and paid no heed to it, diving into battle again with his night vision ruined.  
  
This Urõk had incredible strength, and Legolas was forced to rely upon his speedy reflexes to keep himself alive. He only just managed to hold off the scimitar with one knife, and the attempted slash at its throat proved to be ineffective as his other weapon glanced off of the face of the Orc's shield.  
  
The Orc came for a second attack, and Legolas was hard pressed to deflect the next blow, emitted with greater strength and ferocity than the previous one had been. But turn it away he did, with the greatest thrust that he could muster, throwing the creature's sword arm into the air. This was his only chance of beating it. He threw his weight onto his arm as he surged forward into its foul body, knife leading the way. But something happened as he made his charge that made him scream into the night. Something tore into his side. He fell more than pushed into the Urõk with his shock, still sending his knife through its gut as was intended. He then turned on his new opponent and slashed its throat as it foolishly lowered its guard to roar mockingly at him.  
  
His left side was hot; he gasped with it, not really able to inhale as well as he wanted, the air entering his lungs in short, sharp bursts. It felt like the pain was burning him with its intensity, the purest agony he had ever experienced in all of his millennia...  
  
He dropped the knife in his right hand to clutch at the wound, to hide the betraying blood that the Orcs would undoubtedly smell, his back bent in a feeble attempt to lessen the pain.  
  
He carried on with his task, trying as hard as he could to not allow the agony to engulf him or to frighten him too much with the way it impaired his vision. His lung had not been punctured, he was sure of that - there was not the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, which was a good sign, he thought bitterly. But that small dose of knowledge about his wound did not cause the pain to diminish by any means, and he knew not what other damage had been done to his body.  
  
With the passing of another Orc life he could take no more. Sharp pains flashed through his muscles, sometimes so intense he nearly dropped the knife he still held. His head lightened, making his actions uneven, sluggish, threatening to make him pass out, and his vision was so bad he could no longer distinguish Orc from Man. He could not afford to kill one of his fellows by mistake. The best he could do was get out of the way. And so he searched for a wall against which he could crouch and die. If an Orc got him before then, then so be it. A great darkness loomed at him as he staggered over corpses of both foes and friends. And then his eyes could see only pitch dark - and all was lost to him when his body fell as his mind fleeted from the intolerable tribulation that it could cope with no longer.  
  
Aragorn breathed in the morning air with a smile playing across his lips. The sun was on his face and victory was theirs. He simply thanked the gods for Gandalf and Éomer coming in time. That last charge had completely turned the tables in their favour.  
  
He was keen to discuss what had happened with Legolas - undoubtedly the Elf would have something to say about the events that had ensued. And it was then that Aragorn realised that he had not seen him since the Elf had hauled himself and Gimli up the Wall that night.  
  
He cast his grey eyes about the battlefield, hunting for a blond head or grey steed. When he found none, he began to worry. Convincing himself that the field was huge and that there were so many horsemen in one area it would be the near impossible to find one alone, Aragorn walked Brego through the throng of men and horses with the vague hope that he would find his best friend.  
  
It was strange how he saw so many people that he knew alive and well - Éomer, Gandalf, Théoden and countless others. Why could he not find the one that he wanted?  
  
They rode back to the fortress, and, as soon as he entered, Aragorn handed Brego over to a confused Éomer, offering only a hasty explanation of wanting to find his friend before he hurried off into the swarm of joyous people from the Glittering Caves.  
  
He asked some of the people he came across if they had seen an Elf wandering around. The multitude of them replied yes, but when pressed for information about their garb the answers were never what he wanted to hear.  
  
Dread began to settle in his chest as Aragorn decided to scour the Deeping Wall and check the masses of bodies that lay about the Wall's feet. Elves, Orcs, Men, they were all there, unmoving. Dead. All of this death, this waste of Elven and human life made him feel sick. It heightened his sense of foreboding.  
  
There was such a vast amount of rubble scattered on the ground – fine shards of stone from the blasted Wall snapped beneath his boots, grating with the dust and bits of rock, and he found his way obstructed more than once by gigantic boulders which had been flung into the air as though they were leaves in a gale. He did not wish to know what lay under some of them, though it was rather telling sometimes by the dark stains which formed grizzly stains in the dirt.  
  
He could not help but smile as he passed the corpse of an Orc that lay flat on its back with a green-fletched shaft protruding from between its eyes. Legolas' mark.  
  
Something glinted in the shadow of the Wall on the ground as he passed. He realised what it was with a horrified gasp and picked it up. One of Legolas' long knives, stained with black blood. Aragorn knew that its master would never discard it willingly - he was simply too proud of them to do that. His hand shook as he rotated it, and he was unable to oppress the dread that welled in his chest.  
  
Panic over-rode the foreboding sense that he had previously felt as he hunted more frantically, and it was as though the pit of his stomach had disappeared when he saw the figure with blond hair slumped in the corner of a cold stone stair, completely still. A leg was brought up tight to his chest, the other closest to the Wall stuck out before him, his head facing the Wall.  
  
Aragorn practically flew over the corpses to get to him, cold with fear, skidding to a halt in the debris at the Elf's side. He went down on his knees, caring not for the biting rock pieces that stabbed at his skin.  
  
'Legolas,' Aragorn said urgently, tears choking him. No, this could not be so. He would not allow it to be. 'Legolas, please speak to me,' he begged, the pain of loss already beginning to tug at his hope that his friend may yet be alive.  
  
The Elf turned his head slowly from the Wall at the sound of his friend's voice, blinking constantly because his eyes would not remain focused and his head pounded as though his brain were trying to escape.  
  
'Aragorn?' A hoarse whisper, little more than that.  
  
Aragorn laughed and threw his arms about his friends' shoulders in a tight embrace, his tears now turned to those of joy at finding him alive. But the smile faded from his lips as he drew away to look the Elf in the face.  
  
His eyes were sunken and dull. His skin was deathly pale, save on his left cheek where it was grazed from when he had fallen into the Wall, and there was a trickle of dried blood down his face that originated from a cut just in his hairline. His lips were tinged with blue. There was something very wrong.  
  
'You look terrible.'  
  
Legolas chuckled at his friend's words and shook his head to himself.  
  
'You are hurt?' Aragorn found his fear again, just as poignant as before as he watched his friend's face closely.  
  
'It's just a scratch,' came the reply, a small smile trying to break onto the Elf's face to calm his friend. 'I'm alive, so it can't be too serious.'  
  
'You and I know that that is not true,' said Aragorn, shaking his head.  
  
'I am alright, Aragorn! Stop fretting!' His tone had been sharp. It was never sharp.  
  
'Well then, you can come back to the Hornburg with me.'  
  
When the Elf made no movement, Aragorn took his right arm and tried to pull him up. Nothing could have readied him for what was to happen next.  
  
Legolas screamed out in obvious agony and Aragorn let go instantly, Legolas' hand shooting back to where it had been before it had been taken away. He was appalled by the sound that he had never heard from the Elf before in his life.  
  
Legolas' face was screwed up in pain, the heel of his outstretched leg digging into the dirt.  
  
'Let me see it, Legolas.'  
  
Legolas' eyes were still closed with his pain, but that did not stop the tears leaking from them. He shook his head at Aragorn's request.  
  
'Legolas. Legolas, look at me,' Aragorn commanded in a soft tone. He crouched and stared at his friends' face, waiting. 'Stop being stubborn and look at me.'  
  
Something of the king inside him could be heard in the Man's voice, and Legolas picked up on this. He could not refuse that order as much as he wanted to. So he opened his eyes grudgingly and looked at his friend.  
  
'Now let me see.'  
  
His hand came away slowly, reluctantly, the Elf gasping as it did so. As soon as it was held before him, Legolas actually looked upon his hand for the first time since he had placed it there. What he saw terrified him. It was not of the natural tone of his skin, but dripping crimson onto his trousers.  
  
'It's a big scratch,' he breathed, an uneven frightened laugh escaping his lips. His attempt at levity did not succeed in making him feel any better, though. He turned to his friend for comfort, simply getting Aragorn's eye contact. It hurt Aragorn to see the sheer terror in his blue eyes as he looked up at him.  
  
He ventured his own hands to the Elf's side, pulling gently on the torn, blood-soaked jerkin to make his inspection a little easier. Despite the fact that the wound was up close to the Wall, he could see the extent of it. It was not a mere scratch. It was a lengthy laceration, deep enough to cause him great concern.  
  
Whilst he was leaning over Legolas' body, he could feel heat radiating from him. As he drew back, the Elf said in a quiet voice: 'I feel cold.' He was actually shivering.  
  
Legolas never felt the cold, and Aragorn knew that to be a fact. On Caradhras he had been the only member of the Fellowship to go without a cloak and be perfectly happy, even during the blizzard. Cold just did not affect him.  
  
Aragorn laid a hand across his friend's brow and found it to be burning hot. Now he was very worried.  
  
'Come on, mellon nin.' Aragorn scooped the Elf up carefully in his arms, deeming that it would be foolish to even contemplate making him walk.  
  
Legolas huddled into Aragorn in an attempt to get some warmth as the Man strode back towards the Hornburg. 


	2. Chapter Two Differences

Chapter Two - Differences  
  
Gimli stood on the steps to the main entrance of the Hornburg looking out over the land for any sign of Legolas or Aragorn. He knew that Aragorn was perfectly fine after Éomer had informed him that the Man had gone to search for Legolas. To search for Legolas. That concerned him greatly. Apparently he had not ridden out with the others. He needed to tell the Elf his count - he was sure he had won their game...  
  
His eyes found a figure coming briskly up the walkway and he was delighted to see it was Aragorn carrying something large in his arms. Then he realised what it was and released an exclamation of horror and grief, and set off hurrying down the stairs to his friend. He stopped before Aragorn, a pleading look in his eyes as he asked in a desperate, strangled voice: 'Is he dead?'  
  
'No,' came the reply as Aragorn skirted around the Dwarf. 'But he is grievously hurt and very sick. Where are the wounded being tended?'  
  
'In the main chamber.'  
  
Aragorn raced up the steps, pausing before the doors to allow the Dwarf to open them for him. His eyes were greeted by a room filled with people with ailments - walking wounded mainly, but there were some that took up the corner at the far end. These were men lying on the floor on hastily constructed beds with women and the occasional man milling around them. It was there that Aragorn needed to be.  
  
His feet sounded loudly as he crossed the chamber, depicting his urgency with their heaviness. He ignored the looks that he was receiving of curiosity from some that had nothing better to do.  
  
'Please help me,' he called to a plump woman who seemed to be the one organising the others. 'My friend is wounded and I don't know where he can go.'  
  
The woman stood before him, chewing her lip as she thought. She eyed the Elf as though he were a dog whose temperament she was not sure of. Legolas had shifted his head a little. He stared back. This seemed to make her feel uncomfortable, for she adjusted her weight on her feet and diverted her green eyes from his intense blue ones which he blinked slowly, never letting them wonder from her face. Eventually she said: 'I don't think we can treat the Fair Folk.'  
  
'Why not?'  
  
'Because they're - different.'  
  
This kind of attitude angered Aragorn. 'The only difference between him and me,' he began curtly, 'is that he has pointy ears and I do not. Apart from that, I see no difference that could possibly present you any difficulties. While you're trying to think of some, do you think that you could find him a bed?'  
  
The woman brought herself up to her full height as though she was about to speak out against his words when a light hand rested on Aragorn's shoulder, making him turn. There stood Éowyn smiling softly at him.  
  
'Follow me.'  
  
Aragorn did as she bid, not wishing to stay where they presently were; he felt that leaving Legolas with that carthorse would not be very wise, either for his benefit or indeed hers. He knew what the Elf had just done perfectly well, and he grinned despite himself. He jumped as Legolas said: 'They're not pointed: they're peaked.' Aragorn laughed softly at this.  
  
'I apologise, mellon nin; I'd forgotten that you prefer to speak of them like mountains rather than ears.'  
  
Legolas gave a brief snort at this and tucked his head into Aragorn's chest, his eyes closed. They had to hurry.  
  
She led the way into a corridor and turned up a flight of spiral stairs, lit by a couple of torch-brackets whose light quivered as she passed, deepening and then making the shadows thinner on the worn stone steps in their wavering light.  
  
At the top of these stairs they met with another corridor - down which they travelled - until they came to a doorway to their left into which they entered.  
  
It was a chamber of a reasonable size, large enough for twenty men to feel comfortable in. As it was, there were about thirty in there, and it dawned upon Aragorn that they were all Elves, most of whom were on the floor on pallets with blankets on them to make them more comfortable. He saw bloodied rags and heard murmurs of pain as the able tended their companions.  
  
'Is this all of you that are left?' He spoke in common tongue for the benefit of Éowyn and Gimli.  
  
'No, Lord Aragorn. We are but a handful.' An Elf stepped forward and bowed deeply to them gracefully. As far as Aragorn could see, the only injury that this Elf had sustained was a cut on his cheek. 'I am Celdan of Lórien, and I am here to tend our own wounded, as the - erm - large lady will not see any of our folk.'  
  
'Yes, we've already met with her,' commented Gimli, the resentment he felt for her showing in his tone.  
  
Celdan smiled and gestured to an empty pallet close to the small fire that crackled in its grate.  
  
Aragorn laid his burden gently upon the bed, cringing at the sharp hiss as Legolas inhaled abruptly at the fresh stab of pain that the movement gave him. He started to shiver again.  
  
Celdan looked upon the face of the other Elf, and his eyes widened in shock at the sight of him.  
  
'The Mirkwood prince lies before me in one of the worse states I have seen any in through the past hours. The night was evil indeed.'  
  
'There is something more to his detriment than meets the eye,' said Aragorn softly yet urgently. 'Do you know of what it is?'  
  
'I fear that I do,' was the response. Celdan, with a brow furrowed with anxiety, placed his hand to Legolas' brow as Aragorn had previously done. His fingertips found Legolas' pulse, and he listened intently to his breathing. He even pulled up the top lip of the other Elf to make an examination of his gums, which were pale and dry. Last of all his long hands went to the wound, causing Legolas to give a sharp cry as they peeled back the dark and stiffened stuff of the jerkin and shirt, revealing the laceration, from where blood that had flowed - and still did - had caked over previously fair skin. Now it had visibly greyed beneath the blood. The condition of the skin itself confirmed his worst fear. His shoulders slumped and his head bowed, a heavy sigh parting his lips before he could stop it.  
  
He rose and walked out into the corridor, indicating that the others should follow.  
  
'The Orcs have developed a new toxin,' he informed them gravely. 'I had heard of it briefly before we parted Lórien. I shall not lie to you: it is deadly.' His frankness left the others in total shock. 'I have come across several men that have it in their systems, and it grieves me to say that they are dead.  
  
'The way it works is this: the victim receives the poison via a wound - no matter how small - and it has no effect for a few minutes. Then they become light-headed and cannot see properly. Their eyes are unable to focus on anything no matter how close even with the greatest concentration.  
  
'Their bodies become abnormally warm, but they feel cold, and their faces become sallow and their eyes dull. This is the mere beginning of a high fever that is very unpredictable in its length; I have heard tell of it all happening over an hour, others taking place over days.'  
  
A silence ensued, during which Gimli and Aragorn felt the beginnings of grief start to settle in their hearts.  
  
'However, there is the slimmest hope.' Their heads lifted at this, eyes raptly watching the tall Elf before them. 'With this toxin a fever-sweat does not normally break out. It is when it fails to happen that death occurs. If it does-'  
  
'He'll live?'  
  
Celdan grinned at the Dwarf's interjection. 'I am not making any promises, and the last thing I want to do is give you false hopes - but yes, he may live.  
  
'But he is very ill; I could see that without even looking at the injury he has - which we will have to clean out...'  
  
Aragorn drew from a pocket a small drawstring bag, which he opened, sending a sweet, uplifting aroma into the air. Celdan's grin broadened. 'You come prepared.'  
  
'It isn't much, and the leaves are dry, but it will still hold most of its' virtue. It may be of some help,' said the Man, more to the bag of athelas than anyone else.  
  
'I'm glad that you have any, no matter what state it is in,' commented Celdan. 'All of our stock has been spent.'  
  
They re-entered the chamber and Celdan veered off to the fire to add Aragorn's pouch of dried athelas to a steaming pot of water.  
  
Aragorn and Gimli crouched beside their sick companion, who watched them with a half-opened blue eye that blinked more frequently than was deemed natural for an Elf. He looked worse to them than he had done when they had parted company a few minutes ago.  
  
'I would rather you did it, Aragorn,' he said quietly.  
  
'Did what, mellon nin?'  
  
Legolas swallowed before he replied: 'Clean my wound.'  
  
Aragorn's eyes snapped to those of his friend. They were both open now, and from their stare he knew with a sickening feeling that the Elf had heard everything that had been said. He may be dying but there was absolutely nothing wrong with his hearing.  
  
Celdan arrived with the water in a bucket that sent its scent washing over them. Legolas breathed it deeply, bracing himself for what he knew was about to come, as Aragorn wrung off a strip of clean cloth in the steaming solution, he too trying to harden himself.  
  
Éowyn lifted Legolas' head and laid it upon her lap, placing her cool hands over his forehead gently yet firmly, smoothing his skin with her middle fingers in an attempt to keep him calm, speaking softly to him all the while.  
  
Gimli came and took his friend's hand, continuously repeating: 'You're alright, lad, you're alright.' Whether he was trying to convince Legolas of this or himself he was not entirely sure.  
  
Celdan had fetched another Elf, and the two of them were pinning Legolas' legs to the floor.  
  
Aragorn removed his friend's belt and cast it to the side to rest with the discarded knife that he had picked up. The weapon looked rather sad without its companion and sheath, along with the bow and quiver that went with it. He would have to go and hunt for those when this task was done.  
  
His hands drew back the stuff of the torn jerkin and shirt to reveal the wound, which gaped up at him like some grotesque attempt at a mouth just beneath the rib cage, a great diagonal slash. It was not a clean cut, and was situated too high for the jerkin and shirt to remain on; they would only be a hindrance as he cleaned, and Aragorn needed two hands for this. So he indicated to Celdan and his companion to come and aid him in the removal of the two items. Celdan lifted Legolas' upper body whilst the other two took off the garments delicately and threw them to the side. This done, they went back to their positions at his feet.  
  
The cloth hovered for a moment over Legolas' bloodied side before Aragorn developed the resolve to bring it down firmly to flesh.  
  
He did not scream at first - he tried to bury his face in Éowyn's lap, as if to hide from the pain. Only when that failed to work did he cry out with the intensity of his agony.  
  
Gimli gasped as his hand was practically being crushed, his face reddening and small grunts escaping his mouth in his discomfort. Either Legolas did not hear or he did not care, for his grip never lessened, but intensified.  
  
Éowyn was now holding his head firmer than before with one hand and stroking his cheek with the other, her face close to his ear, hushing and whispering words of comfort to him. She was shaking almost as much as he was.  
  
The Elves at his legs were having a real test of their strength - they virtually had to lie on them to still them and prevent themselves being kicked.  
  
Aragorn paid no heed to the discomfort of the others. He thought his task to be the hardest. He was the one inflicting the pain to his friend. This had to be done, he knew that well enough; but that did not prevent the tears obscuring his vision.  
  
He rinsed the bloodied cloth in the pail and began again, not daring to pause for any length of time.  
  
Legolas was now fully thrashing. No words of Éowyn could console him enough, nor could the two Elves at his feet restrain him as effectively as they wished, and the sudden movements were causing the blood to flow more again.  
  
Aragorn finally drew back and threw the cloth into the fire, breathing heavily. He hastily bandaged the laceration with the aid of the two Elves before he sat back and declared that his work was done.  
  
Legolas was panting in the aftermath of what had just happened, Éowyn now caressing his face with two hands.  
  
Three blankets were placed over his shivering body with another one rolled up for a pillow for when Éowyn moved.  
  
'You must sleep now,' Aragorn suggested gently. Legolas merely shook his head to this proposal. 'Yes, you must.'  
  
'You mean sleep like Men sleep,' came the weak reply in a quavering voice. 'I cannot do that.' A single tear streamed down his cheek to settle upon Éowyn's finger.  
  
'You are frightened and in pain and away from home, I know,' said Aragorn sensitively. 'But you are with your friends, and you know that we would never allow anything to happen to you. Do you hear me?' He clenched the Elf's shoulder reassuringly with a clasp that stated he would remain true to his word, and that he was there and always would be there just as a true friend would.  
  
It was at that point that the singing began. Sweet, harmonious words that did not need the help of instruments to sound beautiful. The words were only distinguishable to a few in the Hornburg, but the majority of their chamber understood them.  
  
It was a song that Legolas knew well; they sang it at home in Mirkwood. It reminded him so very much of home, of security, of his father...  
  
His shoulders visibly relaxed as his muscles lost their tension that they had gained through his distress to the caress of sleep. And as this happened, his fingers too slackened their grip upon Gimli's hand.  
  
'Is he asleep?'  
  
Aragorn could not answer Gimli's question. Struck by a sudden inspiration, he lowered his mouth to the Elf's up-turned ear, knowing that what he had to say would undoubtedly provoke a response of some kind. When no such reaction came, he sat back upright nodding to the room.  
  
The Dwarf clenched his teeth as he drew his hand slowly away, as if he feared that the Elf's hand would realise that it had let go and would grasp him again.  
  
He flexed it tentatively, and Aragorn and Éowyn could not help laughing at him. Gimli, feeling a little embarrassed by this, commented gruffly: 'The lad has more strength than I anticipated.'  
  
'That he does,' replied the Man, giving Legolas an affectionate glance. 'It is with that that I hope he shall prevail.'  
  
'Of course he shall.' All turned at the voice that orientated from the doorway. There stood Gandalf, standing tall with his staff held in both hands, smiling benignly into the room, his old, kind twinkle in his eyes. 'Elves have a tendency to beat us all when it comes to survival.' He nodded his head to Celdan as the Elf bowed to him.  
  
'The woman in the Hall informed me that you were up here with an Elf that has 'witch-eyes'. What she could have possibly meant by that I have no idea.'  
  
Aragorn snorted disdainfully at this. 'Legolas stared her down, basically, and she didn't like it.' He sighed heavily. 'I would have thought that they'd be happy to treat those that came with the prospect of giving up their immortality for them. Clearly this is not so.'  
  
'The minds of Men are not easy to bend towards new beliefs as you know; she has probably grown up with strange stories about the Fair Ones that her parents and forefathers deemed the appropriate manner with which to explain what they did not understand. Ignorance is sometimes deeper than we may think.' 


	3. Chapter Three Memories and Nightmares

Chapter Three - Memories and Nightmares  
  
The day wore on. Gandalf stayed a while, talking of what had occurred when he parted their company to seek Éomer.  
  
Night engulfed the world outside, and Aragorn soon found himself alone in the room - well, he was the only one awake, anyway. Gimli lay on his elven cloak on the floor beside Legolas, and Éowyn lent back against the wall, the Elf's head still in her lap. Aragorn had told her that she could leave if she wished, as Legolas now slept. But she had refused, stating that there was no sense in disturbing him when he was comfortable. And now she was also asleep, the fact that Legolas shifted feverishly on occasion failed have any effect on her slumber - which was just as well, he thought, as she looked worn out, her fair hair lining her face like a frame on a painting.  
  
He absent-mindedly fumbled with the Evenstar that hung from his neck. How he missed Arwen...  
  
In an attempt to drive his mind from his pain he dabbed Legolas' brow with a cool cloth. He was still blisteringly hot, even though he shivered like a leaf in a gale.  
  
'You and I know that a cool cloth will make no difference.' Gandalf was back, and he seated himself by Aragorn, who sighed and lowered his hand.  
  
'I know. I just wish it would.'  
  
They sat in silence for a time, the deep breathing of the others and the occasional fevered groan from Legolas the only audible things in the room, as Celdan had left to supervise in the burial of his comrades.  
  
Eventually Aragorn broke the silence. 'This is all my fault.'  
  
'How is that?'  
  
'I dragged him - and Gimli - into this war; I forced him into this; he knew that something was going to happen last night, and all I did was shout at him when he voiced his worries. What kind of a friend does that?'  
  
Gandalf sat for a while watching the fire with pensive eyes before he made any reply.  
  
'Do you remember what Lord Elrond said to us all before we parted Rivendell? "No oath nor bond is laid upon you to go further than you will." That applied to Legolas as well, and he knew it. Did you not realise that there have been several points in our journey where he could have indeed left us to go home? But he didn't; more out of loyalty to you than anything else, I believe. Even here he could have left, even though it would be a very long walk.'  
  
'But I am still the one responsible - I drew him into a fight that did not concern him or his people and that he had a bad feeling about.'  
  
'As to that,' Gandalf replied, 'you were fighting in a battle with terrible odds. Of course he had a 'bad feeling' about it. I would have thought him arrogant and an idiot if he hadn't.  
  
'But as this stands, Aragorn, you shouldn't blame yourself for another's hurt - not unless you inflicted the wound yourself, which I know you didn't. So stop fretting about it.'  
  
Aragorn gave a mirthless laugh. 'That's what he said.'  
  
'Then you know that we are both right.'  
  
Aragorn paused for a moment, trying to calm his panicked breathing as new thought struck him with all the power of a lightening bolt. 'What if he dies? What if he dies because I made him fight against his will?'  
  
Gandalf heaved a sigh from the night air that drifted through the open shutters. They were burning the Orc corpses from outside the Deeping Wall, and the smell caught in his throat.  
  
'I personally believe that he will not die so long as you are here, Aragorn - as I said a minute ago, he is loyal to you. The loyalty of a friend to his companion is a very powerful force, especially in a friendship where the relationship has formed over years as yours has. It is a bond that binds his soul to this body, no matter how battered it is, because he believes that he has a duty to you. Nay, Legolas Greenleaf will not leave for the Halls of Mandos this time.'  
  
This was of small comfort to Aragorn, who found tears stabbing his eyes with all the mercy of a band of Urûk-hai.  
  
Legolas' head began to toss more than it had been, his brow creased in a frown...  
  
His back hit a cold stone wall as he backed away from them. He threw a hand out behind him to the wall to find it felt tacky. His hand came before his eyes, and it was then that he realised it was slick with blood - the blood of Elves that lay at his feet. He gasped in horror. Why had he not noticed them before?  
  
He held his long knife defiantly before him, poised to make an attack on any of them if they dared to come at him. It was only one knife that he held - he briefly wondered why, and also why his back was against the wall and not his quiver.  
  
He faced the Orcs that out-numbered him - there were three that snarled before him, leering and making jests at him in the Common tongue so that he knew what they said, what they wanted to do...  
  
'We'll gut you like a rabbit.' 'Come here you so that we can see if your eyes shine out of their sockets.' 'You've nothing to fear from us - we just want to see what colour your blood is and what you look like inside!'  
  
One of them came at him with its own dagger set before itself, the dirty blade aimed at his throat. It was slain with a quick flash as the long knife went to its work. The Orc squawked as it fell - but there were three others in its place, all identical to the dead one. This he could not even begin to comprehend. Where did they come from?  
  
More dived at him, and he killed them - but they were replaced just as the first had been. He soon found himself surrounded by them.  
  
'Leave me alone!' His hollered cry went unheeded - they simply pressed in closer, repeating the threats that they had made earlier...'We'll gut you like a rabbit.' 'Come here you so that we can see if your eyes shine out of their sockets.' 'You've nothing to fear from us - we just want to see what colour your blood is and what you look like inside!'  
  
'No!'  
  
Aragorn and Gandalf looked on helplessly as the Elf yelled and threw his right arm out at invisible foes.  
  
Éowyn and Gimli had awoken to his cries.  
  
'Aragorn help me!' The desperation in Legolas' voice stung the man to the core.  
  
'I'm here, mellon nin.'  
  
He heard Aragorn's voice faintly; a sound distant and hardly audible, like the cry of an eagle borne upon the wind from leagues away. He was nowhere in sight.  
  
'No, you're not, you're not here! Why won't you come and help me?'  
  
The Elf's breathing had become harsh with the panic that his dream was installing in him.  
  
'LEAVE ME BE!'  
  
'It's the fever talking,' Aragorn assured the others.  
  
What was he on about? Fever couldn't talk! What a ridiculous thing to say.  
  
He was tired, and there was the dim awareness of pain hovering around his mind. As to where this pain was or what was causing it he had no idea. All he knew was that he was stuck, alone, and that the multiplying Orcs and their mockery wouldn't cease, no matter how much he wished it to.  
  
'Get them away!'  
  
'Who?' The voice of his friend was faint still.  
  
'The Orcs, you moron!'  
  
Those words caused several eyebrows to raise in amusement, Aragorn's included.  
  
'You are dreaming, Legolas. No more than that. There are no Orcs near you. Open your eyes and look for them if you don't believe me.'  
  
There was no response to that. He stilled suddenly, no longer shouting or thrashing his arms - but the frown remained, his breathing still came harsh and uneven, and the heat continued to rise as the fever took a greater hold over his body. Aragorn could feel it from where he sat, and realised its true intensity when he laid his hand over the Elf's brow yet again. The skin was dry as an old bone in the sun, only hotter. The sweat had to break soon, or they would lose him. The threat of losing his best friend was more than he could cope with. They had been through so much together - too much - for them to be parted in this way.  
  
He was flying over lands wide and wondrous. He had never seen the world like this, had never known of its beauty from this perspective that was reserved only for the birds, or of the wonder of flying like an eagle. He was with an eagle - a large magnificent bird with a cruel, handsome head and talons designed for killing, wings with such a span that it need not flap like much of its prey had to. It was designed specifically for that purpose, for killing, but that was not what this bird was being used for. There was a letter tied to its leg, and it glided with amazing speed over the land towards where it needed to make its delivery.  
  
Fangorn passed beneath them, then Anduin came into view, slithering beneath them, a great snake sliding its way over plain. To the west the Misty Mountains forked down from the north. Then a larger mass of trees became visible, spreading like a great stain of dark green over the land. His heart lifted at the sight of it. Mirkwood sprawled under them, his homeland, stretching almost as far as his elven-sight could see.  
  
The eagle began to dive steadily from its great altitude as they swept over the main body of the forest, heading for the north-eastern edge. Its decline became more pronounced as it neared an area that was not quite so dense with trees. Leaves rushed up to meet them, then parted as the lord of all the skies swooped between the branches of the upper canopy and then into the moderate clear beneath the out-stretched arms of the trees between their trunks, flapping on occasion.  
  
Its barking call rang out as it announced its arrival, causing the heads of several Elves to lift to watch the bird glide over them between their tree- top homes. It cried out again, homing in on an Elf that held his leather- gloved right hand out. Its weight caused his hand to sway under the impact as the beak ripped at a piece of rabbit that the Elf held as its reward. Whilst the bird was preoccupied by this, the letter was taken from its' leg by a messenger, who set off towards the palace with it. Legolas followed closely.  
  
The great stone doors opened to permit them entry to the cavernous palace hall. Nothing, Legolas noted, had changed since he had left six months ago - except the tables had been stripped of their fine decorations and were now covered in armour and weaponry of various sorts; swords, bows akin to the one he had left in Lothlórien, clusters of arrows wrapped in fine cloth, it was all there. All of the weapons his people used for warfare.  
  
The messenger took the letter to a tall, silver-haired Elf that sat on his throne with his forehead in his hand, massaging his brow, his eyes closed. Legolas had never seen his father look so strained before.  
  
'A letter, my King, from a Lord Aragorn, brought by an eagle with the Horse- Lord's ring on its' leg.'  
  
Thranduil opened an eye to observe the scroll that was held out to him, and took it uncertainly. The messenger left with a deep bow to his king.  
  
As he unfurled it, Legolas stole up behind his father to read it too, intrigued about what Aragorn had to say to his Adar.  
  
King Thranduil,  
  
The content of this letter grieves me deeply, but  
  
you have the right to know of this news as Legolas' father.  
  
Legolas heard his father swallow as he read that line, and a slight tremble came to his hand.  
  
Your son, myself and our friend Gimli son of Gloin became involved  
  
in the battle of Helm's Deep, during the course of which Legolas  
  
was wounded by an Orc. The wound was poisoned by a new type of  
  
Orc toxin to which we do not have the remedy; he feels constantly  
  
cold himself though he burns with a high fever. The sickness is serious  
  
but we are optimistic, as he is fighting it well. I shall keep you informed  
  
about any changes in his condition.  
  
Lord Aragorn  
  
'My only son lies dying amongst strangers,' he muttered to himself, his inner agony at the news showing itself in his pained tone as his shaking became worse. 'My only son. My boy.'  
  
'But I'm here, Adar, I'm alright.' Even as the words parted his mouth he knew that his father wouldn't be able to hear him; but that failed to deter him from trying to alert his father to his presence, to comfort him.  
  
Since his wife had gone to the Halls of Mandos, King Thranduil of Mirkwood had relied heavily upon Legolas to keep himself from the total grief that he knew would overwhelm him if he did not focus on his child. And as he had grown, the prince had become the one reason that he continued, the very centre-point of his life. Legolas reminded him so very much of his lost wife that it sometimes felt to him that she was still there with him; his sons' smile, the way he talked and things he came out with, his eyes and his cool temper all came from her. He needed his son, and this news of Legolas' sickness resembled what had happened to his wife too closely. He was unable to discharge the thought of her poisoning and slow death from his mind, and the possibility of the passing of the only child they had had together terrified him. He knew what this poison must be - they had had several men die from a new Orc toxin that they had no solution for, and the symptoms that Aragorn described fitted those of what he had seen recently too well...  
  
Legolas could see the tears begin to gather in his fathers' eyes.  
  
'Adar!' His cry went unheeded. 'ADAR!'  
  
Thranduil's head snapped up, his reddened eyes scanning the area of the Great Hall frantically, disbelief playing across his confused face as he searched for what he was not entirely sure was there. To his grey eyes the room was completely devoid of anyone save himself; but that did not stop his voice from venturing tentatively: 'Legolas?'  
  
The Hall blurred - as did his father - and all blackened.  
  
The sweat still had not broken. It was three days now since his fever had begun, and Aragorn could see no end to the illness. They had waited all that time by the Elf's side as he tossed and groaned, sometimes shouting out in a fevered fashion. The strangest of these occurrences had happened two hours ago - they had heard him shout to his father. It had not been a frightened call to his parent like a child would make in the dark; it was more of a demanding cry, as though he were trying to get his Adar's attention, startling them with the intensity and very volume of his voice. They had never thought that it could be so loud, even in his health. But he had stopped trying to call to his father after the loudest shot, and had resolved to distressed tears, which brought them to Aragorn's own eyes. This was the purest agony he had ever been through, seeing his best-friend fighting for his life, harking his cries and observing the inner pain that came through even during sleep. He would have given his life to be in Legolas' position at that time, just to ease his suffering.  
  
Gimli had gone to fetch something for them to eat. It was mid-afternoon and the Dwarf had decided that it was high time for lunch. He was taking advantage of the ready supply of food after their uneven eating over the previous few days, claiming that he was too thin - which had made Aragorn chuckle.  
  
Legolas' bow, quiver and other knife were propped up against the wall - a product of one of Gimli's walks. The bowstring had been severed, fraying the fine twine that had been twisted from real Elf-hair to such an extent that the hairs were unfurling. The quiver itself had taken no harm, but the belt that had strapped it to the Elf's back and passed down his left side had been cut, with blood at the point where the Orc's blade had penetrated both leather and skin.  
  
The tossing had lessened of late. The fever was weakening him. He no longer shivered - it was worse than that. His body had resorted to the bone- jerking shuddering of severe cold, despite the number of blankets and cloaks that were tucked firmly in to his body. The energy that he required to do this was eating his fat-resources, and his face had thinned with the sickness as it did so. Aragorn feared that even if a sweat did break there would be too little left for after the fever for the Elf to actually survive.  
  
Gimli re-entered the chamber, cradling a loaf of bread, a stack of dried meat, a couple of apples and a flask of wine. As to where he had managed to up-root the wine, Aragorn had no idea, but was glad all the same for it when it arrived. It gave him a small pleasure that he had not indulged in for quite a while as it touched his tongue, and he savoured the moment. The Valar knew when he would be able to have some more.  
  
They ate in silence, both through not wishing to disturb the few Elves that remained in the room, and for lack of having anything to say. It was not an uncomfortable silence - they just had nothing to convey with each other, and their friendship understood this.  
  
As it had previously done, the day of waiting wore on slowly, just as it had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Light that had flooded through the open shutters now faded into grey, then nothing at all, and the only light came from the fire's soft glow that played a dance of oranges and yellows across the stone and sleeping bodies that surrounded it.  
  
It did not take long for Gimli to slip into the stuff of his dreams. Aragorn swore to himself that he wouldn't do that himself - he had to keep an eye on Legolas, lest there be any change during this dangerous stage of his fever.  
  
He opened his eyes. Then he cursed himself profusely for ever having closed them in the first place. He had sworn that he would not fall asleep, yet he had. What a sign of weakness.  
  
He sat up straight and rubbed his sore neck, as his head had drooped to his chest as he slept.  
  
Then he noticed the chair before the fire. It was covered in something dark. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realised that they were cloths - Legolas' cloths - drying in the fire's heat.  
  
'Good evening.'  
  
The sound of her voice made him jump visibly as his eyes snapped about the room to find to source of the voice. He did not need to look any further than the side of the fire, for there sat Éowyn on a hard wooden chair akin to the one being used as a cloth's horse, with Legolas' jerkin in her lap. A needle danced in her fingers as they stitched the fabric nimbly.  
  
'Evening, my Lady.' He paused, surveying what she was doing for a time before he spoke again.  
  
'This is very noble of you.'  
  
She lifted her head from what she was doing to give him a small smile.  
  
'He must have clothing to wear for when he wakes,' came her gentle reply.  
  
'I'm afraid the blood won't come out of the silk,' she commented, biting off the thread as she finished.  
  
'That's alright; no one will notice once it's covered.'  
  
He lowered a cloth into the bucket of cold water that lay to the side of him to dab it on Legolas' heated forehead lovingly, his brow furrowed with worry.  
  
'You really care for him, don't you?' Her intonation was soft as she said this, gentle as a summer's breeze.  
  
Aragorn finished his task before dropping the cloth into the bucket, not having the heart to wring it out. He sighed before he answered.  
  
'I was raised amongst Elves in Rivendell when both of my parents had died-'  
  
'-Ah,' she cut in, the smile that he knew without looking at her on her face as much as in her voice. 'You grew up together.'  
  
Aragorn smiled himself at her misconception. 'No. He is older than I am.'  
  
'Really? He doesn't appear to be so; by how many years? One or two I'd say at most.'  
  
Her guess made him chuckle. She cocked her head to this, frowning in a confused fashion at his laugh.  
  
'By nearly three thousand.'  
  
She gasped with surprise as he said this, temporarily forgetting her sewing as she gazed upon the fair face in wonder, trying to understand how it was possible that one who appeared so young could be so old. She knew of elvish immortality, but had never really allowed it any thought.  
  
'As far as the Elves are concerned, that is actually a fairly youthful age,' Aragorn commented.  
  
'Like just over twenty, say, in our lives.  
  
'We met when I was little more than fifteen. He came to Rivendell - or Imladris, as the Elves prefer - with his father, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, as part of a party that came to discuss the matter of Orcs who were venturing further into the realm of Mirkwood.  
  
'While the two lords talked seemingly endlessly, we went on a hunt together, with my foster-brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, on foot, taking a few provisions with us.  
  
'We tracked for a couple of days before we found anything, but when we did find game it made us consider what we were hunting and whether or not it was worth the risk - wild boar. We knew how dangerous they are; none of us wanted to get skewered. But we were eager to bring back something worth our while rather than just rabbits and so persisted all the same.  
  
'Never had any of us anticipated that it was herd of males that we tracked - until it was too late.' Here he paused, his mind recounting what happened next in all the detail he cared not to remember. 'We knew from the tracks that they were large animals, but we had thought - for some reason - that they were sows-' He laughed again, this time at their stupidity all those years ago. 'Fine hunters we were, when I got tusked.'  
  
Éowyn gasped appreciatively at this, horrified by the very thought of such a thing happening.  
  
'I startled them from their rest by sneezing,' he continued bitterly. 'After that bedlam broke loose. Three of them shot into the bushes - the largest one was not so easy to scare, and he charged at us; we were forced to scatter.  
  
'Not being of elf-kind myself, I was unable to leap nimbly into the trees, and the beast tore my leg. I fell, the pain of the injury rendering me helpless in the mud. Legolas saved me.'  
  
'How?' Her question was quiet, yet she sounded gripped by his tale, eager to find out the conclusion.  
  
'He jumped from his tree to place himself between the pig and me. He angered it by slashing it's snout with his long-knife, made it chase after him instead, allowing my brothers to come and get me away.  
  
'He ran with the boar after him - it caught up with him, too, and ran him down. As soon as that happened he stabbed it properly as it went for him again upon its second approach - you see, it had been running so fast it actually charged over his back.  
  
'Elladan finished it with an arrow. So we got our wild boar in the end.'  
  
'How badly were you hurt?'  
  
Aragorn thought for a time, watching the face of his friend pensively. 'I suffered a torn calf in my right leg, Legolas got a couple of broken ribs, wrist and a few scrapes and bruises from the hoofs and we were both drenched in mud. Apart from that, we were fine - well, 'til we got home. Our Adar's rebuked us to no end.' He chuckled at that memory. 'It was like being children again when they confined us to that healing room for a month.  
  
'Since that moment we have been best friends - age is not something of any matter or consequence as far as an Elf is concerned, so the difference never fazed either of us.  
  
'The experience with the boar brought us together; if one is worried or concerned for something, the other is always there for support...' His voice trailed off at this as the lump of choking pain clogged his throat and tears stung his eyes mercilessly. 'I don't know what I'd do if he were not here with me.'  
  
He laid his fingers over Legolas' cheek, smoothing the clammy skin lovingly - clammy skin? Aragorn sat bolt upright, laying his palm flat over the Elf's brow. But then he thought that it could be his own skin that was sweaty - so he tested the back of his hand against the skin of his friend's bare shoulder. Sure enough, it was damp, to the pure elation of Aragorn.  
  
'He sweats,' he breathed with disbelief. He could even see the gentle sheen of perspiration over the Elf's shoulder blades in the dancing fire light. 'He sweats!'  
  
Aragorn shook Gimli's shoulder hard to wake the Dwarf, who presently jerked upright, flinging his arms up in alarm, shouting out gruffly at being awakened in such a fashion. Then he saw Aragorn's face close to his own, and furrowed his brow in confusion at his friend's broad grin.  
  
'He sweats, Gimli!'  
  
The Dwarf's face slowly cracked into a grin like to that that Aragorn wore, and he began to chuckle with joy, until the sound became a full-blown laugh.  
  
Celdan - having been roused from his light elven-sleep by the pair - came over to see them.  
  
'He sweats.' Aragorn's eyes shone as he said this to the tall Elf.  
  
'So I have heard,' came the reply as the Elf beamed down at the positively ecstatic Man. 'Four times now.'  
  
He crouched down to check the other Elf's pulse - which he found weaker than he would have liked - and to make a mental note of his temperature.  
  
He appreciated the joy that the companions of the Mirkwood Prince were feeling, but he held his own restrained doubts about this; Legolas had - in his opinion - been too long in the pre-sweat stage of the fever. Had it started yesterday, he would be a little more optimistic - he did not feel pessimistic just for the sake of it. The fever could have wrought irreversible damage to the Prince's vital organs and body tissue, and dehydration was going to be even more of an issue now than before; he had managed earlier that day to rouse Legolas just long enough to force a small sip of water down his throat. But a drop of water had little chance of sustaining him through a fever-sweat as big as this one promised to be. 


	4. Chapter Four The Flow of the River

Chapter Four - The Flow of the River  
  
It did not take long for the sweat to really break out. When it did, Legolas' bedding became soaked, his fair hair turned dark as it became plastered to his skull with the perspiration.  
  
The loss of water now worried Aragorn and Celdan, as the thought of dehydration also struck Aragorn. He was now a lot more sedated about his friend's condition as he had realised that it had just as much potential to destroy - if not more - as it did to heal.  
  
Never had either of them seen a fever of this size before in all of their experience of healing - it even surpassed that of Frodo after the Nazgûl attack, which really had been a sickness to be reckoned with, as far as Aragorn was concerned.  
  
Legolas had, at least, stopped feeling cold; his blankets (all four of them) had been kicked off ferociously with such strength as none of them had deemed him capable in his current state. He now appeared to feel hot, for he shifted constantly, moving from one piece of wet bedding to another area that was already drenched.  
  
He cried out occasionally still, sometimes in Elvish, sometimes in the Common Tongue; to the amusement of all, he cussed Gimli frequently...  
  
'Stiff-necked Dwarf!' and 'You're obsessed with holes in the ground' came up once or twice. Aragorn got his fare-share, too...  
  
'You moron, Aragorn!' 'You never listen to me.'  
  
The last one stung the human, because he knew this was true. Legolas had issued so many warnings of approaching danger to him and he and failed to act upon them. What did that make him? A terrible leader or an appalling friend? He could not decide which. And did the Elf's cries reveal what he truly thought or were they the just the fever making him abusive?  
  
The hours dragged by before the sweating became less profuse, and dawn showed her pale face before it stopped completely.  
  
His mind slowly began to rouse itself. He was confused, so he lay and thought about what had happened - he remembered fuzzily the events of the previous night - (or what he thought to be the previous night) and the memories began to sift and fit themselves into the appropriate slots in his mind ... he knew of the battle, and of the stab-wound that had occurred, and as he thought of this, the pain came back, dull at first, then strengthening. It was not as intense as it had been, but it certainly was of a discomfort to him.  
  
He knew that it had made him vomit as he searched for a place to crouch out the battle because his eyes had failed him. Then there was a huge blank.  
  
The next thing he remembered was Aragorn's voice raising his awareness of the world. Aragorn had taken him back up to the Hornburg, where they had met with Gimli who had flustered like a disturbed chicken. They had proceeded into the fort to find somewhere for him to be treated, and had eventually found Celdan. Then he had had his wound cleaned ... after that literally painful memory, nothing more came to the surface.  
  
Having sorted out the events that he had endured, he began to check his senses, paying no heed to the pain in his side.  
  
He could feel a soft breeze skirting over his skin, because there was no shirt on his back. He waggled his toes and found his feet to be bare as well. But the feeling that struck him first and foremost was the dryness of his throat. He was absolutely parched. The thirst made him almost gag as he tried to swallow, his tongue feeling like a piece of dead wood which rasped against the roof of his mouth.  
  
As though someone had read his mind, he felt his upper body being gently lifted upright, and a cup was placed to his lips, water lapping against them like the soft kiss of life. He gladly parted them to allow the precious commodity access, this sweet nectar that he yearned for so desperately. He began to drink it down faster...  
  
'No, no, no, no,' a voice rebuked softly. The cup was taken back from him. 'Not so fast, Thranduilion. Be careful - I shall allow you to have as much as you wish for, just so long as you don't guzzle.'  
  
He knew that voice - it was Celdan's. He did not want it to be Celdan.  
  
'Where is Aragorn?' His speech was dry and course, little more than a whisper even though he tried to make it something more, his voice crackling like walked-upon leaves in the Autumn.  
  
He felt a hand take his own in a firm, strong, comforting grip.  
  
'I'm here, mellon nin. I shall not leave your side.'  
  
The cup came back, and he drank his fill, slowly as Celdan had bid. As he finished he turned his head away from the offering hand; in truth, this was merely a tiny movement, but Celdan understood the Prince's wish.  
  
He was asleep before he was even laid back down to the fresh pillow which was slipped beneath his head while he had been raised, still holding Aragorn's hand slackly.  
  
It was daybreak - he could tell. His closed lids disclosed to him not the strong beams of the sun, nor the pitch of darkness, but the stage of in between. Dawn, at about four in the morning, as far as he reckoned, for there was not the usual shifting of bodies at dusk as he deemed normal for that time of day.  
  
He was less weak than he had been, he knew that for a fact, simply because he was more aware of what was happening around him - which was, at present, nothing at all. But there were people about in the chamber - he could hear their deep breathing as they slept. How long had he been sleeping himself? As to the answer to that query, he had no answer.  
  
Still there was pain in his side, but it was less than it had been when he had awoken last when he had had that cup of water.  
  
He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the potent smell of sweat - his own sweat he realised. He would need a bath as soon as possible.  
  
His senses were all fine, he knew - besides one that he had not yet tested - his sight. Last time he had used his eyes they had not functioned properly. He now feared that they would fail him altogether. He was an immortal - to be perpetually blind would be the most devastating and difficult thing for him to come to terms with - he needed his eyes.  
  
Lying there not knowing if he were blind or no was driving him mad - so he opened them without any further hesitation, and uttered a gasp, as he gazed blearily up at the stone ceiling. It was merely a grey blur at first, but as he blinked it became crisp and sharp as his eyes had always depicted images to be, be they far or near.  
  
He decided to test his strength and sit upright. It felt to him as though he had not done so for an age - muscles protested as they were forced to work against their stiffness, and his wound defiantly hurt as he stretched it. He tried to ignore them all in all, like a parent omits a misbehaving child - but even the hardest parent cannot completely throw their child from their mind. He managed all the same, despite his pain.  
  
Having ascertained that there was nothing wrong with his sight, he turned his head to look upon the figure who slumped by him, his hand in his.  
  
'Good morning, mellon nin.'  
  
Aragorn started and sat up so abruptly that Legolas thought that the Man was under the illusion that the building was burning or something of the sort.  
  
Aragorn's grey eyes fixed upon the blue ones of Legolas, eyes which he had never thought would open again, or indeed shine as they were now.  
  
Aragorn began to laugh, and threw his arms about the surprised Elf's neck in his joy, crying tears of sheer happiness and relief into the shoulder of his companion - his best friend - whom he had thought he would lose forever.  
  
'You had us all so, so worried, mellon nin,' he declared as he drew back, wiping the tears away that gave his face a sheen in the grey light of the morning.  
  
'Worried? Why?'  
  
'Why? Legolas, you have just awoken from the biggest fever I have ever known any to live through - it took nigh on five days!'  
  
Legolas contemplated this for a time, wondering how it was that five days could pass without his knowing. He looked to Aragorn's face, his head cocked to the side. The Man seemed so worn - his eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale through lack of sleep. There were worry-lines etched into his brow.  
  
'You look terrible.'  
  
The Man laughed heartily, and as he did so, the lines seemed to begin to become erased from his face. 'Don't you ever give me cause to use that line on you ever again, Legolas Greenleaf.'  
  
'I shall try, Aragorn son of Arathorn.'  
  
Aragorn smiled at the Elf. 'I shall hold you to that.'  
  
'I need to thank you,' Legolas began.  
  
'You do?'  
  
'Yes - thank you for sending my father notification on my condition.'  
  
Aragorn no longer laughed. His eyes scanned the Elf's face as his friend looked steadily back at him, his eyes back to their usual way of hardly blinking.  
  
'How came you to know of that?'  
  
'I read it.'  
  
'Legolas, there is no way in Valinor that you could have read that letter.'  
  
Legolas put his gaze out of the window to the fair morning as the sun began to peer over the horizon.  
  
'" King Thranduil, the content of this letter grieves me deeply, but you have the right to know of this news as Legolas' father-"' he shot a sharp glance at Aragorn as though to make sure he was listening to him. "'Your son, myself and our friend Gimli son of Gloin became involved in the battle of Helm's Deep, during the course of which Legolas was wounded by an Orc. The wound was poisoned by a new type of Orc toxin to which we do not have the remedy; he feels constantly cold himself though he burns with a high fever. The sickness is serious but we are optimistic, as he is fighting it well. I shall keep you informed about any changes in his condition. Lord Aragorn.'"  
  
A word-perfect recitation, accurate to the last letter. This was too arduous a thing to even try and contemplate at such an early time in the morning.  
  
'How do you know?' That was the only thing that he could think of to say.  
  
'I told you - I read it; I travelled with the eagle to my homeland.' The Elf's eyes became unfocused as he reminisced of the experience. 'In my dream.'  
  
'Ah, so you rode with the eagle, did you?' Celdan stood besides Aragorn - who had not noticed his coming - and beamed down at the Prince benignly. He bowed, to which Legolas made the appropriate response by returning it as best as he was able.  
  
'Your bow, Thranduilion.' From behind his back, the other Elf produced Legolas' bow, with a new string to it and handed it to its' master, who received it readily. Legolas bent the supple wood as he tested the new string. Then he paused mid-bend, and placed the weapon upon his lap.  
  
'Whence did the string come?'  
  
Celdan exchanged a quick glance with Aragorn, and then hung his head as he replied with a melancholy intonation: 'From Captain Haldir's bow, Thranduilion.'  
  
Legolas' head snapped up at these words, his eyes flickering from one face to the other, burning with emotion at the news of the death of his friend. He said nothing, but made to stand abruptly. He found that his strength was not what he thought it was, however, and stayed where he was, scowling at the fresh pain that the movement had brought more out of irritation than suffering.  
  
He had known Haldir for nigh on a thousand years, a friendship that had been forged when envoys of Mirkwood had traversed to Lothlórien on relations trips that his father had set up, mainly to keep the bonds tight between himself and Celeborn. Such things had never interested Legolas, so he had gone on hunting expeditions with Haldir, during which they had formed their steady companionship. Never again. And as this thought came to him, he drew a sharp intake of breath at the stabbing new pain that he felt - not physical, but in his very soul. Someone who he had held dear and respected had left his life permanently.  
  
Tears stung his eyeballs, and his head bowed with his grief. A hand gripped his shoulder and he heard Aragorn shuffle closer. His sorrow overwhelmed him, and he needed the contact of another. Aragorn sensed this, and pulled the Elf into the tight embrace that he required so much.  
  
After an hour or so, in which he sat and thought of Haldir's passing and the deaths of so many of his kin, Legolas realised that he had not eaten for what his stomach felt was an age. And as this thought came to his head, his gut gave a particularly loud irritated grumble of displeasure, at which the other two laughed.  
  
'Methinks Thranduilion would like something to eat.'  
  
Celdan left to fetch some food and came back with a steaming bowl of something, and handed it over to the Prince. Legolas neither asked nor cared what it was, but set it to his lips without even looking at the bowl's contents.  
  
'Careful, Thranduilion, it's-' Legolas downed the lot in a series of deep gulps in a matter of seconds, tilting the bowl with trembling hands. '- Hot,' Celdan finished lamely as the bowl was placed on the stone floor next to him, totally devoid of any soup. There was not a drop in sight - it may have well have been a clean bowl.  
  
'Is there any more?' asked Legolas, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, uncharacteristically throwing away any recollection of manners, knowing full well that, had his Adar seen him do it, no matter how many millennia Legolas had seen, he would have received a clip round the ear.  
  
'There's a whole pot,' replied Aragorn. 'But you shan't be having any more for a while yet; your stomach needs to get used to having something in it. We don't want you to get ill again.'  
  
There was a brief silence in which Legolas huffed and chewed his cheek - but it was short lived, as a harsh voice gave a loud exclamation into the air...  
  
'Laddie! You're awake!' Legolas was near-choked as Gimli hugged his neck tightly, half laughing, half crying with glee. Aragorn had to leap to his feet to pull the ecstatic Dwarf away form the still weak Elf.  
  
'Careful, Gimli! Not so rough!' He released the Dwarf, who smiled almost manically at the Elf, who smiled back softly with the old light back in his eyes, making them glitter in the early rays of the dawn sun.  
  
'We thought you were never going to come back to us,' Gimli breathed. 'You were so far gone, Lad - I really thought that was the end of you.'  
  
'Unfortunately for you, I came back to grace you with my presence once more.'  
  
Celdan drew Aragorn away as the two friends reunited after the intermission of those strenuous few days.  
  
'This is indeed a strange friendship,' he conceded to the Man. 'Never in all my years upon this Middle-earth have I come across an Elf and a Dwarf that were actually happy to see each other for the sake of friendship rather than for the sake of dispute.'  
  
'It was not always so,' Aragorn replied, remembering the various squabbles and snide remarks that had passed between them when the Fellowship had first formed - they had even scrapped in the middle of the Council meeting at the very beginning. 'They nearly drove us mad - a comment against the race of the other here, a personal jab there.  
  
'But then we got to Lothlórien, and something happened there. I know not what ... they just - well, stopped. My only guess is that they came to some mutual agreement between themselves. They have been friends since.'  
  
'It is good to see such an allegiance,' said Celdan. 'It helps remind us that we should unite in these times of hardship if we truly value what is right. If we are not together as the Free Peoples then we are as good as under Sauron already.'  
  
Come midday it was decided - by Legolas - that he was well enough to bathe, dress, and leave the room for a change of scenery. This was very grudgingly accepted by Aragorn and Celdan. Before Legolas was permitted to have his bath, however, Celdan resolved to set down some boundaries for physical activity...  
  
'Your side is not yet fully healed, Thranduilion, so there are certain restrictions that you must abide to: no archery; no knife play; no strenuous activities such as running, fighting, and so on.'  
  
Legolas heaved yet another sigh at this news. The very thought that had been in his head was to practice with his bow for a bit; he longed to use it after this lengthy duration of doing absolutely nothing. But he had no desire whatsoever of causing further time to be dedicated to his side's healing process, and so conceded to these rules without argument.  
  
Aragorn had had to help him to bathe, as his detriment still caused considerable pain and made him less flexible, making the whole process of washing himself very difficult.  
  
The laceration was, Aragorn observed, doing nicely; it had begun to knit well, despite Legolas' lowered strength levels - one of the many advantages of being of Elven-kind was that healing always took a lot less time than with any human.  
  
One thing that struck him and distressed him in turn was the way that Legolas had visibly thinned thanks to the poisons' part in his sickness. Fever such as he had had caused that kind of deterioration, but not to that extent. It had wasted his muscles and his face had become near emaciated. The sooner he was able to pick up his bow and knives again the better. Aragorn would have to help him with re-building his strength by holding mock-fights with him. He trusted that it would not take too much time in doing, as the Elf clearly despised this state that his body was going through from the heavy scowl that never ceased all the way until he dressed.  
  
All of Aragorn's thoughts about Legolas' condition were, of course, correct. He did indeed resent the way his body had become decisively less than it had been before. He could not go into war in this state - for he knew that it was to war that they would eventually go. Building back up his strength was his main priority at that moment. 


	5. Chapter Five Departure and Love

Chapter Five - Departure and Love  
  
It was three hours past noon when talk began of leaving the Deep and heading to Isengard; Théoden King wished to confront Saruman about his actions.  
  
All of the King's lords were gathered about him in the Hall, which was now completely devoid of any sick beds. Aragorn and Gimli sat on benches with the others - but Legolas resumed his usual stance and stood outside of the circle of Men during this council, arms folded across his chest to observe this meeting of Men. The happenings of these people held nothing about his own people - thus he felt that his presence was an invasion upon their business. He felt that observing in itself was something that he had no right to do.  
  
Next to Haldir, Legolas was of the highest rank amongst all of the Elves in the Deep. As a prince of his people, it had been his duty to take them back to Lórien. In Lórien he would be able to heal properly.  
  
Aragorn had asked him if he wished to lead them, but he had declined from the opportunity to go home by saying that he had gone so far with Aragorn he could not turn away now. Aragorn had accepted this willingly - he had not even tried to sway his friend's mind ... something that the Elf quietly took to heart.  
  
He did take it upon himself, however, to give someone the post of second in command, as Haldir's own had joined his captain in the Halls of Mandos. The one that he appointed was Celdan, who had accepted this readily after a rather shocked silence.  
  
The entire host had left just an hour or so before the meeting, with the gracious thanks of Théoden. The King pledged to them his allegiance and that of his folk thereafter for as long as the two realms existed, to which Celdan replied: 'Until Lothlórien's Lady passes to the West shall we uphold your vow.' This had puzzled Théoden greatly - but he spoke not of it, and bowed to the Fair Folk as they marched out of the mouth of the Deep. So depleted in numbers, with little more than a new allegiance that they would never use and the heavy grief of loss as they left their fallen buried in a hovel of darkness that they could never allow themselves to forget.  
  
Aragorn and Legolas had, of course, understood the words of the Elf, and they rang home with Legolas even more than with the Man. It reminded him forcefully of Galadriel's prophecy to him. When Gandalf had relayed it to him, he had been puzzled by the words for a brief amount of time, but had then realised what they foretold ... that he was going to hear those fabled birds of the sea. There were no ifs about it - it was going to happen: the sea longing was going to be awoken in him...  
  
'...will you join me, Lord Aragorn?' All heads turned to Aragorn as Théoden passed this question.  
  
'Only if Legolas is fit to travel.'  
  
The Elf started at the usage of his name, and as the eyes of those about him rested upon him in turn, Aragorn's included, he fixed his own eyes with only those of his friend. His gaze said 'yes', but for the benefit of the others he spoke the word aloud.  
  
'Then 'tis settled,' declared Théoden to the room at large. 'We leave at dawn.'  
  
The meeting disbanded at these words, and Legolas found himself wandering away in the throng of the crowd.  
  
His feet took him to the caves - but it was not to the Glittering Caves of Aglarond that he went. He left the route to where the people had hidden to the cave that was used as a stable for the horses - if it could be called a stable. A lengthy, well-lit cave with stalls running down either side of it in which the horses of the Rohirrim were enclosed ... and three more besides.  
  
Graceful heads extended to him as he passed, and he touched each and every muzzle with his light fingers as he sought the one he was after.  
  
He saw Arod's elegant head peering out of his stall over the single chain that kept him penned. He whinnied to the Elf, putting a smile to his lips as he approached. It was comforting to know that the horse had connected to him so well as to show such a sign of gladness at the coming of his new master.  
  
He stopped before his horse, and the velvety muzzle brushed his face as Arod took in the scent of Legolas.  
  
Legolas stepped lightly over the chain to stand in the fresh hay of the stall. He lifted his right arm under Arod's jaw and upwards to set his hand just next to the poll so that he may scratch at the right ear. His left hand gently caressed the muzzle. The magnificent head soon became a weight upon his shoulder as the horse relaxed, his eyes near closed with the pleasure.  
  
This felt wonderful for the Prince. After all of the stress of the last few days, all of the physical and emotional pain that he had endured, just standing here with this animal who was so blissfully unaware and unaffected by the events of the outside world helped to soothe his mind. Just them, and it was like only they existed in this purest peace and contentment that he found with the horse. As far as he was concerned, at that particular moment in time there was no outside world.  
  
'Here we are, Arod. You and I. But to what end? What does tomorrow hold for us, and the tomorrow of all other tomorrows thereafter? Perhaps it's better not to know.'  
  
Arod tossed his head at his words, dishevelling his mane with the motion. It was almost as though he understood - but Legolas was not prone to such ways of thinking, and so he just smiled at the coincidental action  
  
Forgetting everything, he extended his left arm quickly rather than his right. Pain flashed through his side and he gave a cry as he was mercilessly reminded of all that had occurred in the outside world, and his arm was snapped back to his side; the sharpness of the movement caused Arod to shy. The stallion backed away, dull thuds entering the air as he stomped his hoofs in the thick hay, snorting. But then he stopped, tentatively extending his graceful neck as he sniffed at the epi-centre of Legolas' pain. The horse ventured forward, nudging the Elf between the shoulder- blades to guide him gently deeper into his stall. Not wishing to argue, Legolas allowed himself to be pushed until he was at the rear of the horses' confinements.  
  
Arod, seemingly pleased with this new arrangement, cut off the only exit with the bulk of his body.  
  
His head turned to the outside of the stall, and his ears flicked down against his head in the classical expression of threat. And it was at this point that Legolas realised that Arod was trying to shield him. It brought tears of affection and gratitude to his eyes.  
  
He was suddenly over-come by weariness, and he recognised that he would not have the chance to sleep thoroughly again when they set off tomorrow. The hay in here was clean and soft, and there was no chance of his horse standing on him at all ... so he lay down in the warm embrace of the dried grass, his right arm acting as a pillow before he passed himself over to sleep's comforting hands. 


	6. Chapter Six Here we are

Chapter Six - Here We Are  
  
He awoke a few hours later, feeling physically and mentally refreshed, and so he left to make ready his things.  
  
There was a general buzz in the Hornburg as people did the same as what he intended, clearing away the general inevitable mess that occurred when so many humans were congregated in so small a place.  
  
On his way up to the chamber he had occupied during his sickness, he noticed something that hurt more than any wound ever could: a broken bow. It was not one of the bows of the Men. It was of an intricate design similar to his own, its beauty broken by the splintered ends. There was blood soaked into it, and he knew with sickening certainty that it was from one of his kindred.  
  
His mouth dried at the sight of it as he thought of the fact that it had belonged to one of his brethren. How had its owner died? Had he been felled by an Orc, just as he nearly had been? Or had he come to his end when the Deep was penetrated? But then he thought of how Helm's Deep had been penetrated, and he felt physically sick. It was his fault - many of the Orcs had flooded into the Deep when that hole had been blasted into the Wall ... because he had failed to do his task properly.  
  
He walked away from the ruined weapon, not really seeing where he was going. As it was, his feet carried him to the chamber, and he set to organising his own weaponry. His hands shook as he fitted his bow in its slot in his quiver when he unwillingly brought to his attention the fact that he had a new string - the bow downstairs had had no string. It was Haldir's bow that lay in bits. Haldir had died at the hands of Orcs that had entered through the wrecked Wall.  
  
So woven was he in this gutting truth that he never even noticed Aragorn enter.  
  
'Good evening, mellon nin.' There was no answer. 'Mellon nin?' Aragorn gazed at the golden bowed head worriedly. 'Legolas?'  
  
The Elf's head snapped up at being addressed, something glowing behind his blue eyes that Aragorn had never seen before. What was it? Puzzlement? Confusion? He looked lost.  
  
Legolas turned sharply on his heel so abruptly that it startled the Man who had anticipated no such movement. Before he could even ask what the matter was, the Elf had departed from the room, his speed such that his cloak whirled out behind him as he fled out of the door.  
  
Some part of him had known that the Elf would be out here. The stars shimmered in the heavens, and the wind whipped the Prince's golden tresses out behind his head as he stood on the Deeping Wall looking out over the battlefield that had been.  
  
Aragorn decided that the best approach was to creep up behind the Elf until he noticed his presence rather than to shout out to him; Aragorn knew not what Legolas was doing out here at this time of night in the bellowing wind, and had no intention of disturbing the Elf's train of thought.  
  
He made a steady progression over the rubble that lay strewn over the Wall to the side of the Prince, and came to a stop twenty yards from him. It shocked the Man to see tears that looked like strains of mithril by the moonlight trailing down the fair face, forced to odd angles by the wind.  
  
The eyes that glimmered like silver as they captured the moonlight flickered briefly over to Aragorn. The look was not one of the Prince's usual stares - there was something deep and unfathomable to it as he regarded his friend, caring nothing for the strands of hair that flung themselves across those pools of intense blue. They were powerful to perceive - burning like cold flames as they watched without blinking in the gale that dried any other set of eyes - Aragorn had to blink several times to prevent his own from stinging.  
  
Legolas left his post abruptly and went to perch himself at the very edge of the shattered rock to the side of the blasted Wall, his feet dangling into the gaping chasm. As far as Aragorn read this sign, Legolas wished to be alone - never would he turn his back to his friend in such a manner if he were of a sweeter temper. For Legolas did have a temper - it had never flashed its keen-edged claws while they had been part of the Fellowship (much to Aragorn's relief), but there was something about his behaviour that suggested that the claws had been sharpened for use again.  
  
His very posture as he sat indicated that he wished for solitude - his shoulders were slumped, his back bent and head turned defiantly down into the great gap that had once been stone.  
  
'You required something, Estel?' His words had been uttered quietly, yet the wind had allowed them to carry to Aragorn as if it feared what would happen if it didn't. Despite his politeness, Aragorn thought that he may have well have just snapped 'What do you want?' Aragorn thought before he answered, sniffing and closing his eyes to the pounding of the wind. 'Yes.'  
  
'What?' There was sharpness there; unintentional - may be - but it was there all the same.  
  
He crossed the distance between himself and the Elf to take a place by his side. Legolas neither spoke nor even gave him half a glance as he did so. 'I want you to tell me what the matter is.' This was answered only by a charged silence in which the Elf defiantly chewed at his cheek and kept his lips tightly together, gazing down into the giant gap in the Wall.  
  
'It'll take them a long time to fill that hole,' Aragorn observed.  
  
'They wouldn't need to had I done what I was supposed to properly.' There was pure icy venom in his voice as he spoke these words. So incredibly bitter, they were practically spat from his mouth as though they held some kind of rancid flavour. He just sat and toyed with a piece of stone.  
  
Ah. So that was the problem; he blamed himself for the explosion.  
  
'It was not your fault, Legolas-'  
  
The stone was thrown with such force at the other side of the Wall that when it ricocheted off of the masonry it made some more rock crumble. He gyrated sharply on the Man, his eyes burning with a fierce fire so intense it was frightening to see.  
  
'Of course it was my fault! Who else's could it possibly be? Had I killed that Orc with the torch the Wall would be intact, my kin would still be here, the Deep would never have been penetrated and Haldir would still be alive...' His shout faded and broke on the final words, and he jerked his head back to its previous position angrily, a heavy scowl of rage over his face.  
  
'Legolas, it wasn't your fault; it was a difficult shot to take. It was running-'  
  
'I know what it was doing!'  
  
'You shouldn't put yourself through this over something that-' Aragorn's speech stopped as the Elf rose from his seat and stalked off, his heavy footfalls depicting his anger even above the roar of the wind.  
  
'Don't' walk away from me, Legolas!'  
  
The Elf spun round, breathing heavily, his face contorted with the raw emotion that swept through his body like a storm taking all calm and rational thought from him.  
  
'I am chiefly responsible for the deaths of my own kin and those men! They died because I failed in what I had to do. Do NOT tell me that it was a difficult shot, that it wasn't my fault because it was!'  
  
Aragorn got to his feet to go to his friend. He was so impossible to speak to when he was this angry. 'Victory carries a price, Legolas; you yourself paid some of that price when you were injured.'  
  
Legolas snorted disdainfully at this, tossing his head, an ugly sneer taking over his fair features.  
  
'If I had paid some of the price, Aragorn son of Arathorn-' Legolas practically spat his friends' name from his mouth '-then I would be dead! I paid no price, though I deserve to with my life.'  
  
'You very nearly did.'  
  
'I wish I had!'  
  
'Please don't say things like that when we worked so hard to keep you with us. None of it was your-' His sentence was cut short as a fist connected with the side of his jaw, throwing his head back. The coppery taste of blood invaded his mouth as a cut made by his teeth in his cheek announced its' presence to him.  
  
'DON'T YOU DARE SAY IT WASN'T MY FAULT AGAIN, ARAGORN!'  
  
Aragorn straightened and watched his companion with shock in his eyes. Never had Legolas struck him, even during his worst temper - which did not even rival this one, as the Elf stood before him, his stance ready for another possible hit if provoked, his teeth bared in a terrible snarl, and a hand covering his wound.  
  
'Did you cause yourself pain when you punched me?' The last thing Aragorn wanted was for the injury to open up again.  
  
The Mirkwoodian Prince turned away again, marching off into the night, his cloak billowing out behind him and not even dignifying Aragorn with an answer.  
  
'Where are you going?'  
  
'Away from anyone else I can hurt; I go to receive punishment for my crime.'  
  
'You committed no crime!'  
  
'I am not needed here - I killed the one my people needed.'  
  
Tears came to Aragorn's eyes. The Elf's despair and grief in what he had convinced himself he had done would surely kill him he was so distressed; either by his own hand or another means.  
  
'But you are needed,' Aragorn cried to the retreating back. 'I need you.' It was selfish, he knew, but it was true.  
  
His pace slowed to a stop, but he did not permit himself to turn about.  
  
'I can't do this without you, mellon nin.' These last words had been spoken much quieter, but they had evidently carried to where they were required to be, as the Elf's head bowed as he stood perfectly still, the wind seemingly leaving him well alone as it buffeted everything else.  
  
Aragorn proceeded to his side, and tentatively extended a hand to Legolas' shoulder. The Elf flinched as it touched him, his muscles tense and as hard as the very rock under their feet.  
  
'You are very much loved, Legolas, and believe me, no-one blames you for what happened; if they did we wouldn't have been so desperate to save your life.'  
  
He sank down to the dust and rubble as he emotionally collapsed, becoming a shuddering figure wrapped in grief and confusion as he was swept up in the tide of pain which engulfed his heart. Aragorn was happy - in a respect - that this had come about; this was so much easier to control than an enraged Legolas. Enraged Legolas was dangerous, as his jaw had found out to his great discomfort.  
  
All Aragorn could do was stand by his friend with his hand on the trembling shoulder, occasionally giving it a firm clench of encouragement.  
  
Legolas leaned forward into his hands, sobbing openly into his palms all of the pain and worry and fear that had made him so aggressive and angry.  
  
But then he straightened suddenly as if by some powerful resolve after the course of about ten minutes, no longer crying but taking deep steadying breaths. He then lifted himself from the ground and turned to face Aragorn, his countenance grave as his red glimmering eyes locked with those of the Man.  
  
'I am sorry, mellon nin; I never meant to strike you.'  
  
Aragorn shook his head slowly at this, never taking his grey eyes from the unblinking gaze of the Elf.  
  
'No, Legolas. I want no apology. Not this time. I deserved it - no, I did,' he added when he saw the Prince's mouth move in protest. 'I pushed too much; I really did deserve it.'  
  
Legolas gave a sigh at his words, the very sound of the released breath indicating that he could not agree less.  
  
Aragorn thought presently of all of the things that Legolas had said - or shouted - in his sleep a few nights previous to that. He had to know...  
  
'Legolas, you said some - things during your fever that have made me consider my ability as your leader.'  
  
Legolas shifted uneasily under Aragorn's stare. 'Things I said? I said things?' he asked, the trepidation as clear in his voice as the sun in a cloudless sky. 'What did I say?'  
  
'Well,' began Aragorn, permitting himself a small smile, 'you did say that I was a moron, and you told Gimli he was obsessed with holes in the ground.'  
  
'Gimli is obsessed with holes in the ground - but I actually said that? Aragorn I'm sor-'  
  
'Stop apologising! It made us laugh. But you said something that forced me to consider ... you said that I never listen to you. Do you really feel that way?'  
  
Legolas stood chewing his cheek again as he thought, knowing full well what the answer was and debating with himself as to whether he ought to answer truthfully or not. He decided that he should.  
  
'I gave you two warnings while we were part of the Fellowship, if you recall: one in Moria and the other in the Emin Muil. Both times I said we should leave. Both times you took no action. Both times we lost someone.'  
  
'And what of my leadership? Did I send Frodo to his death when I let him go? If I make such appalling decisions as the leader of seven then what will I be like as a King?'  
  
Finally, Legolas said in his normal, gentle voice: 'I hated being in the Mines - you know that. They made me ill at ease; I was jumpy and desperate for the sun's kiss on my face again.  
  
'Emin Muil unnerved me because it was too quiet. I get forebodings, Aragorn. You shouldn't base any thing about your leadership on them. You have got us this far without leading us astray, and I personally hold no doubt about your abilities.'  
  
He contemplated the words of the Elf for a time, mulling over them in his mind. Legolas was right - he had told him of possible danger and he had ignored him.  
  
'And what about my abilities as a friend, Legolas? What about that? I didn't listen to you when you tried to speak to me. It wasn't even me who went to find your things - Gimli did that. How can I call myself friend when I fail in so many aspects of what friendship requires?' Tears were in his eyes again as he said this, the feeling of betraying the Elf powerful in his breast.  
  
Legolas sighed and observed the Man with his sapphire eyes, a small smile curling his lips. 'Oh Aragorn. True, I love my weapons. But fabled is the real value of those objects that we deem to be close to our hearts - beside our friends. After all, what is a bow? It's a piece of pliable wood, no more. I can't talk to it, or enjoy its presence. It's the same for knives. Just cold steel. You are not dead wood or cold steel. You are flesh and blood, just like me - I can't relate all too well with my weapons like I can with you.  
  
'Yes, you are our leader. But you are more than that: you are our friend - my friend. My very best friend that I have ever had.  
  
'You stayed with me the whole time when I was ill. You pained over my condition - I saw it in your face when I awoke.  
  
'And don't despair like that over your choices- Hope may seem to have faded like the pale light of twilight into darkness, and you may deem all to be lost to the night. But remember this: light may fade into night, but the Sun will always bring light back to the world in the morning, and as long as the Sun rises Hope will always accompany her.'  
  
Legolas' eyes were soft in their gaze now, the moon-light that they caught making them simply cooler and more complacent - the fire had gone out and the embers had been blown away in the gale. There was no anger or hatred or any other kind of strong emotion there any more - save for the fierce adoration and love that he held for Aragorn. They had a friendship that could not be severed by either harsh words, war or death. There was nothing on that Middle-earth that could persuade either of them to think of the other with ill inclination.  
  
'I'm sorry, Legolas.'  
  
The Elf laughed his sweet harmonious laugh into the night - it was, Aragorn noted, the first time he'd laughed for ages.  
  
'No, Aragorn. I want no apology.' He even wagged his finger at him, forcing a smile to crack Aragorn's own features.  
  
'Then I thank you - your words do bring back to me my Hope.'  
  
'That was their intention,' the Elf grinned.  
  
'Come, Legolas, let us go inside where it is warmer and the wind isn't so harsh-'  
  
'-Lest it be Gimli's snoring.'  
  
'I'll not tell him you said that.'  
  
They set off together down the steps, each feeling lighter within themselves than they had half an hour ago, with Legolas singing a tune lightly in Sindarin, Aragorn listening intently to it. Legolas stopped his song suddenly and paused, seemingly contemplating something, before he said: 'The Lady Éowyn is a wonderful woman for sewing my cloths for me.'  
  
'That she is,' Aragorn complied, wondering where this had come from.  
  
'She likes you, Aragorn.' The Elf cut in front of Aragorn so sharply he nearly walked straight into him. 'I fear that she loves you.'  
  
Aragorn could do naught but gape at Legolas, whose face was so serious he was beginning to look like Celeborn.  
  
'And I ask you now, do you love her in return?' He had been so frank in his choice of words that Aragorn could only give an equally frank answer... 'No.'  
  
'You are sure of this?'  
  
'Of course I'm sure of it!'  
  
'Good. Because you have promised yourself to Arwen Undómiel, and it would grieve me to see her hurt if you had found a new love. By all means be her friend, but let it go no further than that - and be sure that she knows there is nothing between you.' He had spoken incredibly bluntly, he knew - but, at that moment in time, he was in no mood to dance about the subject that he had meant to breech to Aragorn for days. He just hoped that Aragorn would listen to his advice this time as he had failed to do on so many occasions. 'And I would hate to think that I salvaged the Evenstar for no reason.'  
  
Aragorn gave a snort at this. 'You have changed greatly since you awoke, mellon nin.'  
  
'I have?'  
  
'Yes. Your tongue is much sharper than it used to be, and you are voicing your thoughts a lot more.'  
  
'Oh. It must be that brandy that Gimli gave me...'  
  
'You've had brandy? Gimli gave you brandy?'  
  
The pure horror in Aragorn's voice made the Elf laugh. 'No, Aragorn, I was jesting. I had some miruvor from Celdan before he departed - which is far better than any brandy.'  
  
'Whatever you have drunk, it's gone to your head!'  
  
'You badger like a Dwarf-maid-'  
  
'-And what's wrong with Dwarf-maids?' Gimli stood framed in the doorway of the Hornburg, his feet staggered and hands on hips, eyes fixed on his Elven companion with a deeply furrowed brow.  
  
'I never said there was anything wrong with them - how could I when we have one of our very own?'  
  
Gimli gave a growl at this jest - but he knew that jest was all that it was and, as he could think of no comeback at that moment in time, he changed the subject. ''Tis freezing out here - you less hardy Men and Elves can't be out in such chill weather.'  
  
This caused two pairs of eyebrows to raise.  
  
'Oh, we forgot,' Legolas chaffed. ''Twas you who had to stop for us to catch you up when we ran after Merry and Pippin.'  
  
'Yes,' acceded Aragorn. 'And it wasn't you who had to be saved from - what was it, Legolas? Two or three wargs? I forget.'  
  
'Actually,' Gimli retorted haughtily, scowling at the pair, 'it was one.'  
  
'Only one, eh?' Legolas jeered.  
  
'Did I not say that the one you shot with your fancy bow counted as mine?'  
  
'And did I not ignore you and add it to my own tally?'  
  
That reminded the Dwarf of something which he had meant to ask the Elf for days. 'What was your tally in the end?'  
  
'Counting or not the wargs and Orcs we got on the way here?'  
  
'Not.'  
  
The Elf stood musing for a time, chewing on his cheek as he tried to remember the numbers that he had slain during the battle. His problem was recalling where he had continued from, as he had included the ones from the road. 'Forty-two,' he eventually declared.  
  
'Ha! Forty-three!' The Dwarf progressed inside, the other two following, both grinning at the euphoria of their companion as he laughed and mocked his tall friend: 'Forty-two! A mere forty-two! Who's laughing now, Master Elf?'  
  
Legolas abruptly began to cough - Aragorn could have sworn that he heard a word in it. So did Gimli, quite clearly, for he stopped in his tracks and fixed the Elf with an accusing stare.  
  
'What did you just say?' His intonation was filled with suspicion as he eyed Legolas.  
  
'Say, Gimli? I said nothing: I coughed.'  
  
'Yes you did, you said something - and you don't have a cough.'  
  
'What did I say?' Legolas crossed his arms on his chest and returned the stare in a mocking imitation of the Dwarf. Aragorn knew that he was teasing him, trying to force him to repeat the word.  
  
'You said ''tossed''-' Something suddenly clicked in his head, and he turned his glare to Aragorn.  
  
'''Don't tell the Elf'', I said: and what do you do? You tell the Elf!'  
  
Aragorn's eyes were on Legolas, who watched him in return with a smirk on his face. 'You were asleep! I only said that to test whether you slept or not, knowing that you would react!'  
  
'Correction, Aragorn: I was on the verge of sleep. I heard what you said still.  
  
'And I believe that that evens us out, Master Dwarf.'  
  
Gimli still glared at the Elf; but his disarming smile soon caused it to fade away. 'I can't stay mad at you, I suppose - you're alive, and for that I am thankful.'  
  
Legolas bowed to these words in his Elven way that declared that this had been taken to heart. 'I shall never mention it again as long as I live.'  
  
Well peeps, there you go! Hope you all enjoyed it – I know that loads of it was quite depressing, but there you go; I gave it a fairly light ending – I hope. 


End file.
